


Be gentle with me

by woodland_elf



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Except When It Doesn't, Hockey Fights, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Morgan Rielly is a concerned boy, Nylander is a giggling fae gremlin of chaos and good intentions, Toronto also sucks, Trades suck, Tyson is moody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-07 23:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20984321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodland_elf/pseuds/woodland_elf
Summary: Tyson thought that after training camp, after the St Johns trip, after losing to the Sens again in Ottawa, he would finally start to feel like he was at home in Toronto and with the Leafs. He was so wrong.





	Be gentle with me

**Author's Note:**

> I'm here to pioneer this fucking ship if it's the last thing I do
> 
> Big disclaimer: this is completely fiction and I am a simple girl with a simple desire, and that is to see refrigerator shaped men kiss. Sorry to any wives and girlfriends I've left out of this fictional world. Like I said. It's fiction. Also I've only known about hockey for like, 5 months, I'm still trying to learn the rules, so shut up. also IM SORRY I FORGOT ABOUT KERFY ALSO BEING TRADED. Sorry Kerfoot. 
> 
> Another disclaimer: I wrote this in like a day while listening to the Oct 10 Leafs/Lightning game, so obviously i can't predict the future so idk how the game against the Avs goes. Let me reiterate: this is a work of fiction. 
> 
> Also, I moved to Toronto from the West Coast around the same time as Tyson and I HAVE FEELINGS and most of them are: Toronto bites, but it's also good?
> 
> A million thanks to my sister for beta-reading this pile of soft boy goo
> 
> Anyway, enjoy some refrigerator shaped jocks doing the kiss thing

Tyson thought that after training camp, after the St Johns trip, after losing to the Sens _again_ in Ottawa, he would finally start to feel like he was at home in Toronto and with the Leafs. He was so wrong.

Toronto is big. Big in the way that Denver never was. It’s the endless flat that gets to him the most. Back home in BC, and in Denver for the last few years, Tyson was never at a loss for mountains. They were always somewhere on the horizon. Tyson’s only point of reference now is the CN tower. And, if Tyson’s being honest, it looks like a rocket on top of a teapot. Not exactly a beautiful vista.

He feels lost here. The other Leafs include him well enough. Getting ‘screeched’ in St Johns with Auston, Morgan, and Freddie for the PR campaign was genuinely fun. Tyson would be lying if he said his smiles and laughs were just for the cameras. But beneath all of that, there’s a part of him that feels empty without the Avs jersey. Empty without the Denver skyline, without his team — his _old_ team, he reminds himself constantly.

It wouldn’t be so bad, if it weren’t for the fact that he lost Gabe, too.

Tyson can’t name what they had, or it would hurt too much. Whatever it was, it makes him want to jump on a plane back to Denver, fuck his contract, fuck the trade, fuck the Leafs. But he and Gabe had an agreement, after the trade. They had what they had, and it was good while it lasted. But hockey came first. And Denver and Toronto were too far away, game schedules too hectic to try to make it work long distance. The Avs and the Leafs only played each other twice a year, anyway.

So once he got to training camp, Tyson threw himself in with the defense line. He wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but he found he wasn’t the only new Leaf on the line. Almost every defenseman besides Morgan was new, or out on injury for the pre-season. _At least we’re in this together?_ Tyson had thought hopefully. Three years younger than Tyson, Mo Rielly was the foundation-laying d-man who had to wrangle his new line together.

With the shit finally settled with Mitch’s contract and the media circus of Toronto finally focused on actual pre-season games (Toronto media will _never_ become something Tyson is used to), Tyson finally thought he might get asked about something other than the trade during post-skate interviews.

They just lost to Ottawa for the second night in a row. It’s the pre-season, and he _knows_ it doesn’t count towards their record and the team is still just getting used to each other, but losing never feels good. The team feels it. Tyson, still feeling alien to wearing the leaf, feels it. He’s only just pulled off his gear, thrown on a hoodie and pulled a hat over his sweat-soaked hair to talk to the reporters with the rest of his team, when he gets asked for the twenty seven hundredth time: “How are you feeling about the trade now, after two pre-season losses with the Leafs?”

“Jesus, I don’t know, how the fuck do you think I feel?” Tyson absolutely snaps.

The poor reporter can only just blink at Tyson while he feels a hand grip his shoulder and pull him away. “Sorry, interviews over,” a low metered voice murmurs over the stunned silence from the reporters around Tyson, it's not until he’s been steered back into the locker room when he realizes it’s Morgan’s hand on his shoulder.

“Get off me.” Tyson doesn’t even look at his alternate captain before storming off to the showers.

—

They only have morning skate the day before the first pre-season home game against Buffalo. Tyson decides to spend the rest of it walking around Toronto, seeing the sights, hoping to get used to the layout of the city. Not that it’s easy to get lost — it’s a grid system — but there are a lot of neighborhoods and too many restaurants and cafes. Tyson tries to find a nice teashop and stops to pet a lot of dogs. He gets dinner alone and texts Nate a picture of the cocktail menu. _I forgot Toronto prices suck._

Nate doesn’t text back, and Tyson remembers that he and Gabe and the rest of the Avs are playing their second pre-season game against the Stars tonight.

He feels a very specific way about that.

He’s walking down Church Street, stewing, when he sees a gay bar, and then another gay bar. And Tyson realizes he’s in Toronto’s Village and he decides within all of 0.5 seconds _fuck it_ and picks one and goes in.

Its got just about everything Tyson needs, including specifically, cheap (by Toronto standards) alcohol. He resists checking up on the Avs game and instead firmly turns his phone off and decides to slip into his rum and coke and simply observe the crowd of beautiful men around him. He even gets up to dance with a few, though he does turn down an offer for a bathroom hookup. Tyson’s twenty-eight, which doesn’t mean he’s too old for random hookups, but he’s definitely too old for toilet-stall blowjobs.

He’s starting to feel good, and feels even better after two more rum and cokes and much more dancing. He does remember their game tomorrow, and closes his tab feeling like a responsible adult. He’s struggling to fit in, but Tyson’s at least he won’t be groggy or hung over for morning skate.

He’s standing on the sidewalk outside the bar, deciding between walking back to his apartment or calling a cab, when an all-too familiar metered voice calls from behind, “What are you doing here?”

Tyson turns around and Morgan’s standing on the sidewalk, a Blue Jays baseball hat and his hands tucked into his sweatshirt pocket. He looks like he’s trying to keep from being recognized, though it's not like _Deadspin _has someone on the Toronto gay bar beat. Tyson has a brief moment of panic where he wonders if _he_ should _also_ try to be incognito.

Then Tyson realizes that Morgan asked him a question, which he doesn’t have a _great_ answer for, and it’s been a couple breaths and Tyson still hasn’t answered. What the hell would he even say? Should he lie? Tyson doesn’t know Morgan that well. He doesn’t know hardly any of his Leaf’s teammates that well. What would they do if they knew Tyson liked men? The current Leafs roster has a lot of young guys, but the NHL is still the NHL.

“Tyson.”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Tyson quickly retorts, because yeah. That’s the right thing to say in this situation.

“Are you drunk?” And Tyson knows what’s coming, _we have a game tomorrow, are you asking to get bag skated?. _But what comes out of Morgan’s mouth next is, “Let me walk you home.”

Tyson looks up and down the street. “I don’t actually know how to get there,” he admits, very sheepishly.

Morgan pulls out his phone and Tyson relays his address. “It’s not far,” Morgan says, pocketing his phone again and starting to walk. Tyson follows.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” Tyson mutters after a block.

“Then stop being a baby.” And yeah, Morgan has a point. But Tyson is twenty-eight and Morgan is twenty-five and as far as Tyson knows, babysitters are supposed to be older than you.

But he lets Morgan walk him home, which is an uncomfortable thirty minutes of silence peppered in with “Have you been there yet? Great poutine.” Tyson’s still buzzed from three drinks and the jittery feeling of a teammate catching him leaving a gay bar. Not just any teammate, but _Morgan Rielly_, whom with his position and seniority on the defense line instills a kind of institutional respect.

They get to Tyson’s house, a 120-year old Victorian brownstone where he rents the third floor walk-up. The pipes rattle if he takes a shower longer than ten minutes and the water is either scalding or barely lukewarm, but he has a deck with a view of a parkette and it's perfect for Ralph.

“You have an NHL salary and you live in this shithole?” Morgan asks totally incredulously, looking around at the tiny patch of front grass, the rest of the houses, and the busy street Tyson lives on.

“Hey, the Toronto housing market sucks.”

Morgan sort of laughs and shakes his head. “Whatever, man. Just saying.” He puts his fist out for a bump and Tyson can’t believe that Morgan isn’t asking about the gay bar thing, so Tyson bumps knuckles and Morgan nods and walks back down the street.

__

The regular season starts great with a win against the Sens and the Jackets, but a shitty loss to the Habs in a shootout and another defeat from the Blues reminds the team that they have to actually play _together_. Babs practically rips them a new one until they get it, and after that every single player gives it his all in practice, Tyson especially. He comes home every day sore and exhausted, and at least that feeling is familiar.

Morgan scores his first goal of the season off an assist from Tyson and Morgan absolutely _crushes_ him in a team hug. They win the game, and in the locker room Tyson’s watching Morgan give an interview with that same careful face and measured voice he puts on, only cracking a smile once in a while when someone mentions their goal.

“So, Tyson,” a reporter asks, crouching down in front of him where he’s lacing up his sneakers. “You’re racking up some major points for the Leafs. Does playing with the guys here feel different than the Avs? What about your on-ice chemistry? You and Landeskog seemed to communicate without even having to look at each other…” and the reporter asks Tyson something else about Gabe, but he hardly hears it over the roar of blood rushing through his ears. _Haven’t they asked enough?_ He wants to shout, _Don’t fucking ask me about Gabe_.

It must come across on his face or something, because Morgan is again _right there_ flying to Tyson’s side, taking the question and deflecting from what Tyson's sure is he frozen look of panic on his face. Tyson just gets up and walks away. He doesn’t have the energy for civility anymore.

A lot of the guys go out to celebrate the win, and Tyson only stays out for an hour before he calls it. “I’ll catch you later, eh?” he waves after he pays his tab, ignoring that literal child Marner chirping Tyson about being an “old man.”

This time, the bar is far enough from his house that Tyson _does_ need to call for an Uber. Except the bar is on one of those weird little side streets Toronto sometimes has and the driver can’t seem to find him. While Tyson taps his foot on the concrete, Morgan comes up behind him.

“Wow, I can’t believe you’re still angling for captaincy with all this mother-henning you’re doing. Tavares won’t give up the C that easy.” The chirp just rolls off of Tyson’s tongue.

“I only do it for you,” Morgan says in that oh-so-aggravatingly calm voice. Tyson wants to make him crack, hear _some_ passion or inflection behind his words. “Why did you shut down when they asked about Landeskog?”

Why _doesn’t_ Tyson shut down anytime he has to read Gabe’s name and number anywhere, or hear it spoken? He’d burn Twitter just to have a moment of peace.

But since Tyson is having this conversation in the real world, with a real teammate, with _Morgan Rielly,_ he says instead, “You saw me at that bar. You know why.”

A moment passes. “I thought you two were just good friends.”

“I don’t know what we were. But it was more than that.”

“Are you still…?”

Tyson can't tell if he wants to laugh or cry. How is this a real conversation he’s having on a sidewalk outside a bar in Toronto? “No, we’re not. I got traded, and we agreed it would hurt less if it just… ended.”

“I’m sorry,” Morgan says, and it’s startlingly sincere.

“Me too.”

Tyson’s Uber driver finally figures out where the bar is, and a 2018 Corolla pulls up. Tyson takes a step forward and feels Morgan's hand grab for his elbow and hold him back.

“I’ve never been with a teammate. Not that I haven’t wanted…I can’t say I know how you feel. But I can say, I’m here for you. As your teammate. Or a friend.”

Tyson just looks at Morgan under the orange streetlight. He doesn’t know what to say. Did Morgan just come out to him? In front of Tyson's Uber after a win?

Morgan does this bro-ski shoulder slap, like _come on, man_, and Tyson smirks. There’s a hesitation, but they both go in for a hug, properly bro-like with slaps on the back and everything. 

“Thanks, man,” Tyson nods, and gets in the car, thinking, _Did that just happen?_

__

Through the rest of the October and early November games, Tyson…_notices_ Morgan. He’s seen the guy before, on the ice, in the locker room, Tyson’s seen him fucking naked in the showers. Tyson’s been checked by Mo during practice and he _knows_ he’s a big guy. But now he’s thinking about Morgan as a _guy_.

He thinks about Morgan’s hand where it rests on his shoulder while they’re shooting the shit with the team before practice. He thinks about the solid shape of Morgan’s chest under his pads when they grab each other during a celly. He has to look away while Morgan changes at his stall, when he walks out of the showers with just a towel wrapped low around his waist, because Tyson feels like he’s looking at something he shouldn’t be looking at.

He thinks about “_I’ve never been with a teammate_. _Not that I haven’t wanted._”

Tyson, having first hand experience, knows how fucking self destructive that shit is. What if he gets traded again? Mo’s got the A, so he’s not leaving anytime soon. But the NHL has proven that Tyson can be shuttled around with this trade _right_ before Tyson is set to become an unrestricted free agent. Once the year is up, Tyson can go anywhere — but someone would have to want him first. Tyson feels lost at sea. He doesn’t have the same support system in Toronto as he had in Denver. He _wants_ to anchor himself. He wants to anchor himself specifically to _Morgan_.

There’s no way in hell that Tyson’s going to get himself hurt again.

___

November 23rd, and the team has a game in Denver against the Avs. On the flight from Arizona, Tyson tries not to think about it too hard, until he’s thinking about it _way_ too hard.

He hasn’t seen the team since he left Denver during summer.

He’s playing in Pepsi Center for the first time as the _enemy_.

Tyson barely makes it to the airplane toilet before he starts dry heaving. Nothing comes up—he didn’t have the appetite for breakfast this morning at the hotel in Arizona—but that doesn’t mean the whole team didn’t hear Tyson over the sound of the engine.

He can’t hide in the bathroom until landing, so Tyson musters up as much pride as he can, and heads back out. A lot of the guys look down, and Tyson loves them a little for it, for giving him space. Nylander pats the open seat next to him, and Tyson takes it. He meets Morgan’s gaze a couple rows down, and Mo nods a perfunctory _I understand._

“I’m nervous to play against Naz tomorrow,” Nylander admits to him quietly. Tyson remembers they also lost a teammate, but they didn’t lose their whole team.

On game day, after his pre-game nap, Tyson and Nate agree to meet up outside the equipment room in the Pepsi Center.

He’s laughing, he’s having actual fun, until Nate says, “Come on, just come say hi to the guys,” leading Tyson toward the home locker room. Tyson digs his heels in.

“I can’t. It’s…I just can’t go in there, you know?”

Nate frowns, but nods.

And then Gabriel fucking Landeskog comes out in his pre-game suit. Tyson feels like he just took a slapshot to the throat.

The last time he saw Gabe was in the summer, before Tyson went back to Victoria to see his parents before the move. Tyson remembers lying in Gabe’s bed, curled against his body, giving him one last kiss before meeting his cab and going to the airport.

He immediately wishes Gabe didn’t come out of the locker room.

He wishes their first meeting could have been on the ice. With their helmets and gear, and the eyes of a thousand spectators and cameras rolling and their teams between them. At least it would keep Tyson from doing something stupid.

After a few long moments of dead silence, Nate quietly says, “I’m going to go and…check on something," and ducks back into the locker room, leaving Tyson alone with Gabe.

Gabe quirks a smile at him. “When you left, you took the other half of Nate’s last brain cell with you.”

“And what, you kept the other half all to yourself?” Tyson chirps back, and Gabe laughs and it’s so beautiful Tyson might cry. Instead of crying, though, Tyson just grabs Gabe’s tie and pulls him down into a kiss.

Gabe kisses him back, and takes a sharp inhale. “I miss you.”

Tyson nods. “I know.”

“But we can’t. We agreed.”

“I know.”

Tyson wants to lick his dumb face as much as he wants to punch himself in the gut for this. Gabe kisses him again, chaste and sweet. “Good luck on the ice.”

“Yeah, I’ll see your big head out there.”

He says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and _God_, Tyson misses him. Gabe gives him a wink before disappearing back into the locker room, and Tyson wants to stab himself in the chest as he walks toward the visitors locker room, alone.

__

Auston gets a hat trick by the start of the third period because _of course he does_. Naz scores, which must hurt the rest of the Leafs, and then Gabe nets two, and the game is 3-3 halfway through the third.

Tyson’s on the ice and accidentally trips some Avs rookie he doesn’t know on his way to taking a pass from Tavares. Somehow the puck finds the net, and Tyson is fucking _floored_. It’s his first goal with the Leafs, and it’s against the Avalanche of all teams. Tyson feels a pang of betrayal underneath all his excitement.

On his next shift, it’s him and Morgan on the defense line. Tyson gets the puck, and—

The Avs rookie he doesn’t know checks him _hard_ into the boards.

All Tyson knows is one second he’s riding high, Morgan on his side, the puck on his stick, and the next he’s sideways on the ice with pain shooting through his whole chest.

There’s a commotion in the middle of the ice and Tyson is trying to blink though the tears that well up, because _fuck_ that hurts. All he sees is an Avs player with his back flat on the ice, and a white and blue Leaf nailing the Avs guy in the face. From Tyson’s perspective, on his side, they look like they’re flying, with black and white refs circling around them like vultures.

Then he realizes that it’s _Morgan_ wailing on the rookie, pinning him down with his knees. _Oh no,_ Tyson thinks as another wave of pain rolls down his side, _that's really hot._

Since Tyson’s taking too long to get up, the medics are running out on the ice towards him. Tyson recognizes Tavares and Gabe skating up to him. He tries to push up on his gloves, and collapses again when pain shoots down his chest. Okay, Tyson will just stay here, then.

His legs work enough, at least, that Tyson doesn’t need to be hauled off on a stretcher, but it still sucks to hear the pity clapping when the medics escort him off.

While he’s in the locker room getting his ribs checked over by the team doctors, Tyson watches the rest of the game on a screen. Tyson’s 4-3 lead doesn’t last for very long, since Morgan gets a game misconduct for fighting and the Avs score during the power play. When the game goes into overtime, Burakovsky nails one in for the Avs and it’s over 5-4.

The team is just starting to file into the trainer's room when the team doc tells Tyson he’s lucky he didn’t break anything, only some bruising, but he needs to rest up for a few days before the Detroit game. He gives Tyson some extra-strength painkillers and tells him to ice his muscles every half hour.

There’s more than a few grumbles from the guys. The high they were riding off from Auston’s hatty and Tyson’s point up is long gone. “Nice _fucking_ job Mo,” quips Gauthier, and Tyson swivels around on the bench to see Morgan face off against the team.

“That was a dirty shot on Tyson. So yeah, I beat the shit out of that guy, and I’d do it again. Fuck the game. Tyson is _ours._” There’s more emotion in his voice than Tyson’s ever heard before. Morgan glances back over his shoulder at Tyson, flushed high in his cheeks. Tyson wants to blame it on the game, from skating so much. Morgan’s breathing hard enough that his pads and everything move.

Tyson looks away, hiding the heat that rises in his own face.

___

The guys go out, despite the loss, because Auston got a hatty and that deserves some celebration. Tyson stays behind at the hotel. He can’t drink anyway, with the pain meds and it still hurts to move.

On top of it all, he’s still unsure whether he should be glad that he didn’t kill the Avs in their only regular season game against each other, glad that he got his first goal for the Leafs, or sad because of all the same reasons. He’s upset because he’s in Denver, dammit, this was his _home_ six months ago. It’s been home for years. And he’s cooped up in a hotel room after a loss with a team he was traded to because he’s dispensable.

Tyson is deep in his feelings, and decides to watch some HBO and eat room-service waffles about it.

He also doesn’t know how to feel about Morgan, and Gabe, and Gabe kissing him, and Morgan fighting a guy for him. Tyson puts in another room-service order for chocolate-dipped strawberries for two about it.

His phone is surprisingly silent where it’s plugged in on the bedside table. He ignores it as best as he can, absolutely refusing to pick it up and text someone something he might feel bad about later. He at least thought he’d get a text from Nate, if not Gabe, or Morgan.

He finishes watching some Jane Austen adaptation and it’s almost midnight, and there’s a knock on the hotel room door. Tyson grunts as he gets up, cradling his ribs — he wishes he could have gotten some more painkillers from the doctor, and resolves to see if room service will bring him some Tylenol — and opens the door for Morgan fucking Rielly.

“Why aren’t you answering your texts?” he says, more worried than angry. What would he have to worry about? That Tyson was going to die of _bruises?_

“No one’s texted me?”

“Did you turn off fucking airplane mode?”

No, Tyson did not turn off airplane mode. Morgan shakes his head, and comes fully into the room. It’s a standard hotel room: single bed, armchair in the corner for Tyson’s coats, a desk and desk chair that don’t quite match. He doesn’t have anywhere to sit other than Tyson’s bed, so Morgan stands. He’s moving around so much that Tyson can smell him. He smells good; like that clean soap they stocked in the locker room showers, like he’s still got a bubble of crisp Denver air around him, cold and sharp and dry. There’s a slight aura of whiskey, or whatever Morgan was drinking at the bar with the guys. It’s smoky, almost like cologne.

“What’s up?” Tyson asks, trying to be cool, like he wasn’t just smelling Morgan.

“I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Great.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Tyson adds, with a veiled sense of déjà vu.

“I’m not babying you. I’m worried about your dumb body.”

“Mo—“

“That was a beautiful fucking goal.”

Tyson looks at anything _but_ Morgan. He doesn’t know how to take that kind of compliment right now.

Instead, he says, “Did you really mean that? That I’m…” He doesn’t want to say _that I’m yours_ and he struggles to find the right words, but Morgan is smart and catches where he’s going.

“Since the moment you set foot in Toronto, you’ve been a Leaf. You’re _our _man and we are _your_ team. I’ll hit a hundred rookies and take a hundred fucking penalty minutes just to prove it, too. I don't care who the other team is.”

If Tyson weren’t feeling like he was already underwater with everything else weighing on him, he’d kiss Morgan. Right now. In fact, despite every other shitty thing that happened today, Tyson still wants to kiss Morgan.

But he can’t kiss his alternate, his liney. He doesn’t even think Morgan would feel that way about him. Just because Morgan suggested that he was gay, doesn’t mean he’s _interested_ in Tyson. Morgan is just a good liney, a good teammate, on his way to being Tyson’s best friend in Toronto.

Before Tyson can force his body into executive function, Morgan pulls him into a tight hug. It’s no bro hug, with slaps on the back and constant movement. It’s close. It’s Morgan’s mouth warm against Tyson’s ear, Morgan’s arms around his shoulders, so careful around Tyson’s bruised ribs. Tyson wraps his arms around Morgan’s waist and rests his cheek on his shoulder and is so _fucking_ content that it hurts.

“I want to feel like I’m home,” Tyson says, surprising himself, knowing full well the irony of saying it in a hotel room in Denver. What is home? Denver? Victoria? Toronto? How the hell is he supposed to decide?

“When you’re ready,” Morgan says, “We’ll be here, yeah? I’ll be here.” And he’s pulling away, pink in his cheeks that Tyson really wants to blame on the whisky on his breath. Morgan leaves a lingering hand on his shoulder, a long look from under his pale lashes. Tyson really resents the fact that his type is ‘big strawberry blonde jock.’

Morgan leaves Tyson’s room before Tyson can even move again.

Once the door is closed, Tyson dives as fast as he can (but gentle, considering his ribs) for his phone, flicking it off airplane mode before looking at his ten unread texts. There are three from Gabe:

_Hey are you doing okay? _

_I’m really sorry about that hit_

_We’re all worried about you_

Two from Nate:

_jesus fcuk dude you alright_

_jsyk I schooled that rookie so hard he shit himself. Ur my man no matter whose jersey you wear_

Tyson’s heart fucking bursts, he loves his friends so much. But there are five texts from Morgan:

_Hope you’re not too lonely. This is a hell of a celly night, for actually being a loss_

_You’re at the hotel, right? Would it be OK if I come check on you?_

_What’s your room#?_

_Tyson?_

_Tyyy_

And Tyson has to fucking sit down at that one. Morgan didn’t seem too tipsy when he came by, but he’s _never_ taken Morgan Rielly as the kind of guy to text another guy “_Tyyy.”_

And, strange enough, the most recent text is from Nylander:

_www.hockeyfights.com/players/16129 :)_

Tyson’s curious enough to tap on the link without asking Nylander what the fuck that’s about.

It’s Morgan’s HockeyFights.com page. Tonight’s video is already up. “What the fuck, you weird Swede” he mutters as he taps on the video.

Tyson watches himself get hit by the rookie, fly into the boards and crumple on the ice. Then he sees what came after: the video follows Morgan, and Tyson can clearly see him mouth ‘_You’re fucking dead’_ and skate hard at the kid as the throws his gloves and stick and makes contact with the rookie. The kid lands a punch that knocks Morgan’s helmet off, and Morgan flips the kid over onto his back on the ice and totally wails on him. The rookie gets a few solid hooks on Morgan’s jaw, then Morgan break’s the kid’s nose and there’s blood on the ice before the refs can pull them apart. The site's poll unanimously declares Mo the winner of the fight.

What the _fuck_ does Nylander mean with the smiley face?

Tyson watches the video over and over again, watches Morgan’s panicked face turn feral over and over again, and Tyson would be a liar if he said he didn’t get a little hard from it. He puts his phone away, plugs it in and turns it silent, and refuses to touch his dick because _no way_ is he going to let himself feel this way about a teammate, not again.

__

They’re flying back to Toronto in the morning, and Tyson falls into the empty seat by Morgan on the plane.

“Feeling better?” Morgan asks, his face lighting up while Tyson opens his backpack to pull out his book and bottle of Gatorade.

“A little. You?” Tyson asks, poking at Morgan’s jaw — which, yeah, in this light, is totally turning a greenish purple on the edge. Tyson doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it last night. Morgan shrugs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Back in Toronto, Tyson gets checked out by the team doctor again, who just prescribes him more rest and repeated icing. She orders Tyson to only take pain meds when it hurts to move, which is fine, because it doesn’t hurt quite so much anymore.

On the way home, he stops at a corner grocery and one of the dry goods shops for some tea and baking supplies. He spends the afternoon cooking and baking in his little kitchen, then sends a text out on the team group chat inviting anyone who wants to over for tea.

He gets twelve guys, including Morgan to fit in his apartment and on his deck in a feat of civil engineering. They eat the muffins and scones Tyson made and drink tea and shoot the shit, then it’s 7pm and Auston and Nylander step out and come back with a thirty-two case of beer and a shitload of Indian roti takeout.

Even though it’s late November, it’s one of those Toronto days that’s been dry with clear skies, and you almost can’t feel the cold. The sun’s long since set, but Tyson had hung up some string lights on the rooftop deck when he moved in, and once everyone’s in their coats and warmed up from the roti, the deck is rather cozy.

It’s not the biggest of decks, nor is it the biggest of apartments, but Tyson’s watching his teammates eat drink and be merry, and he’s stupidly happy to watch them. He brought them here, and they’re here for him — and his food, but primarily for Tyson.

Sometime before eleven, the guys start to file out. Auston offers to take out the trash and recycling on his way out, since there’s a lot of it and Tyson’s not supposed to do any heavy lifting anyway. Tyson returns to his little kitchen after seeing the last few guys out, and Morgan is standing at the sink with a dishtowel over his shoulder.

“You don’t have to do that,” Tyson says, coming up alongside and grabbing another sponge to help wash.

Morgan gives him a side-eye and snorts. “Can’t have you injuring yourself any more.”

“It’s just dishes_.”_

“Nice observation, you delicate bruised lily.”

Tyson elbows him. “If I’m a bruised lily, you’re a bruised rose.”

Morgan absently touches his jaw. Then he lets out a huff, like he’s telling a joke with himself, and goes back to scrubbing a fork.

“I saw the fight video, you know.”

Morgan freezes. “Come on, Ty—“

“I didn’t know I would have this kind of support when I got traded. You guys are my team, but I had no idea you’d be in my corner. Especially you.”

“Me?” Morgan almost sounds offended.

“You were so stiff, Mo! Like, sixty percent new defense line, you had a lot to handle. Like you’re the class president and I’m the new kid in school. I thought, I don’t know, that I wasn’t going to be worth your time.”

Morgan completely drops the fork and sponge into the sink and grabs Tyson’s arm with his soapy wet hands, and Tyson can only let out a soft “Hey,” before Morgan’s kissing him.

Morgan Rielly.

Kissing _Tyson._

And Tyson’s kissing him back.

Morgan pulls back to look him dead in the eyes. “You are so goddamn worth my time,” he says fiercely.

Tyson grabs the dishtowel from Morgan’s shoulder and starts drying Morgan’s hands — because what animal puts _wet hands_ on a _cashmere sweater_ — and Morgan fucking _giggles_ and it’s the best thing Tyson’s heard in the goddamn world.

Tyson pulls Morgan into his bedroom, because his couch is too small for two professional hockey players to make out on. Tyson gets Morgan on his back and he’s got Morgan’s shoulders under his hands, his knees framing Morgan’s hips. Morgan sucks Tyson’s lower lip between his teeth and captures his mouth so deeply and kisses him so hard that Tyson wants to just sob and let him. But when Morgan tries to sit up and pull Tyson closer, his ribs stretch and Tyson grinds his teeth against the sharp pain.

“Be gentle with me,” Tyson nearly moans, but Morgan is already making soothing motions over his ribs, cupping Tyson’s cheek.

“Always.”

Tyson captures his mouth. They find a rhythm, Tyson grinding his hips down onto Morgan’s dick, Morgan gripping Tyson’s hips and digging his fingers into Tyson’s ass.

Tyson wants and Morgan gives. Morgan asks, Tyson answers. Morgan gathers Tyson up under his arms and carefully turns them over until Tyson is on his back. He slips his hands under Tyson’s sweater, spreading his palms across Tyson’s stomach. Tyson’s already hard, dick twitching with each feather-soft pass of Morgan’s fingers on his skin. He hums into Morgan’s mouth, “Please.”

And Morgan runs with it, the fucking champ. He’s pushing up Tyson’s sweater and pressing hot, hard kisses into his hipbones.

“Do you have any condoms?” Morgan mutters against the now-stiff denim stretched over Tyson’s dick.

Tyson smacks his head back against the pillow. “Ugh, no.”

“Lube?”

“No,” he wants to sob. He didn’t think he was gonna get _laid_ anytime soon.

But Morgan just chuckles. “Don’t worry dude, later.” And Tyson feels like he’s smiling with his whole body at the idea of there being a ‘later.'

Morgan unbuttons Tyson’s jeans and pulls them down just enough to push at the waistband of his boxers. His dick springs free, and Morgan wastes no time taking Tyson into his mouth.

Tyson's breath hitches high in his chest, and he reflexively grabs Morgan’s hair. Morgan pulls off briefly, his tongue leaving a hot trail on the underside of Tyson's dick, flicking the tip before taking him deep again.

Tyson’s so close. He’s bucking his hips, trying so hard not to fuck into Morgan’s mouth, and it's Morgan's steady hand pushing against Tyson's hip, weighing him down almost effortlessly that sends Tyson moaning, coming so fucking contently, as Morgan just swallows around him.

Morgan pulls off of Tyson’s dick and Tyson’s fisting his hands into Morgan’s sweatshirt as he pulls him up, drags Morgan in and kisses him hard. “Oh my god,” Tyson says, then says it again, “_Oh my god.”_

“I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw you walk out of that gay bar,” Morgan says with one of his rare little smiles, and Tyson fucking shivers.

“M’gonna blow you,” Tyson murmurs, voice heavy, and Morgan just laughs and lets Tyson push him over and pull down his joggers. Tyson learns that Morgan is loud and needy when he comes, and if that’s not the best goddamn thing in the world, then Tyson doesn’t know what is.

With Morgan spread out on his back, Tyson sits with his knees under Morgan’s thighs, looking down on him. If someone would have told him two months ago that he’d have Morgan freaking Rielly in his bed, he would have laughed them halfway to Montréal. Tyson can’t believe that this is his real life.

“What are you thinking?” Morgan asks, his voice soft and open.

“Hmm.” Tyson makes a face, and Morgan snorts and bumps his knee into Tyson’s arm. “I’m thinking that I should really ice my ribs. And that it would be nice if you stayed to, ah, make sure I didn’t ice them too long. You know, in case I fall asleep.”

Morgan props himself up on his elbows, drawing Tyson closer. “Now look who’s asking to be babysat.”

Tyson is halfway to tackling Morgan back down into the bed when Morgan kisses him instead. _Yeah_, he thinks, _this feels good._

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I was inspired by my own horniness for Morgan Rielly Flipping People In A Fight and now i invite you, dear reader, to watch the horniest hockey fight I've ever seen:
> 
> https://www.hockeyfights.com/fights/134653


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